A Rose by Any Other Name
by Best Damn Avocado
Summary: Natasha Romanoff has been off the grid for months, when the ghosts of her past start nipping at her heels. With a target on her back and few allies on her side, she turns to Sherlock Holmes for help. Amidst mystery, puzzles and intrigue, the two find in each other a kindred spirit and the possibility of something more.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

Hello readers! First and foremost, thank you so much for taking the time to read this fic. It is an MCU/BBC Sherlock crossover featuring Natasha Romanoff, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

I also have my wonderful beta and best friend, Gracie Holmes, to thank for helping me through the writing process and catching all my mistakes. She's a kick ass writer. Go read her things!

As for this story, it is based on Black Widow's comic book story arc _Name of the Rose_ , by Marjorie Liu and Daniel Acuña _._ A lot of elements have been changed for the story to make sense within MCU and for the story to be realistic, but I've quoted from both the comic books and from the films. Same goes for Sherlock. You'll see a more than a few familiar pieces of dialogue scattered through the fic. I don't own a single thing!

 **Author's Warning Concerning Triggers:**

Because I want to be considerate and respectful with my readers, I also feel the need to explain that there will be references to sexual assault and miscarriage within the next few chapters. Absolutely nothing will be explicit. There will be no details concerning either of those events, or the immediate aftermath.

I know these are a very serious trigger for some people and I take that very seriously. Stay safe everyone!

* * *

 _"And in other news—the ongoing internet phenomenon, Sherlock Holmes, appears to have done it again! According to sources at Scotland Yard, the mysterious killer known only as the Sandman was apprehended earlier today—"_

Natasha muted the BBC News anchorwoman and hooked a finger into the plastic cable of her nasal cannula, eyes fixed on the television screen. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson waded through a crowd of news reporters, refusing to comment. She wondered distantly when John would post a summary of the case.

Shivering, she freed her nose from the cannula and cast it aside with an impatient flick of her fingers. She felt sluggish, and cold.

Whatever they'd given her to dull the pain was doing a hell of a job, but it was also making it difficult for her to take stock of her situation. She didn't rule out the possibility that someone other than the hospital's nurses might've dosed with something to keep her subdued. Annoying and stupid. She hated feeling so out of control.

Dropping the remote, she shoved the covers aside and forced herself to sit up on the bed. Gritting her teeth, she swung her legs over the side and promptly folded in on herself with a fresh wave of pain. The tips of her hair brushed against her legs.

"Focus," she ordered herself.

Head swimming and hands shaking, she gathered her resolve and sat up straight. She didn't yet know how long she'd been out of commission, but she had things to do.

And they'd be coming for her soon, if they hadn't come for her already. She'd deal with that in a minute.

Very carefully, Natasha removed the IV catheter from the back of her hand and scooted forward to stand on somewhat steady legs. Her toes curled on the cold tile.

"Focus," she repeated.

She braced herself against the bedside table with one of her hands and breathed in and out, taking mental inventory of her body. She could feel the wound in her stomach where she'd been sliced open and sewn back shut, but a quick swipe of her fingertips told her the bandages were still dry. She decided they must've been recently changed and put it out of her mind.

Next she checked the bedside table for her belongings, but found no clothes in either of the drawers. Her hospital gown provided little protection against the frigid cold of the hospital room, but she put that out of her mind too. She'd experienced worse.

She was also missing her weapons and phone, both of which she needed and would be a little harder to replace within the next five minutes. The only items she'd been left with were a rose and ribbon she'd received only the day before, still tucked into a cream envelope addressed in her name: 'Remember, Natalia'.

Natasha grabbed it carefully, snaked that same arm around her abdomen, and padded barefoot to the door. Pressing her free hand against the surface, she closed her eyes and focused on the sounds outside.

It didn't take her very long to paint a mental picture. She already had a good idea of the hospital she was in, having factored in the location where she'd been attacked and the hospitals she knew to be in close range. She also knew what to listen for, after decades of training.

Satisfied with her assessment, she reached for the handle and eased her way out into the corridor. Immediately she clocked the the two agents posing as nurses a short distance away.

She hobbled forward, making it look like she was worse off than she really was, and waited until the first agent approached to jab a sharp elbow to his nose. When he went down, she landed a swift kick to his groin.

"Need immediate assistance," the second agent called into her comm. "Target is awake and lucid. I repeat—"

Natasha snatched the gun out of the waistband of the first agent's scrubs and leveled the weapon at one of her kneecaps. She shot one first and then the other, incapacitating her but not killing her outright.

People scattered, screaming and panicking. She ignored them in favor of finding an escape route.

Strategically, she knew the lift was out of the question. She took the stairs instead and dispatched three more agents coming her way with similar gunshots to their knees.

Before making her escape through one of the side exists, she stopped to disrobe one of the men and hurriedly changed into his clothes. She had to roll up his jean's cuffs to suit her height and his boots made moving more than a little difficult, but she wasn't going far. She had a safe house nearby.

Close to an hour later, she'd showered and changed her bloodied bandaging. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her skin was pale and there were shadows under her eyes. She covered the latter with a dab of concealer and slipped into a black blouse and loose black trousers. Comfortable but elegant clothes that would hide her injuries and camouflage bloodstains.

She snatched her trench on her way out the door and tucked the envelope housing the rose and ribbon into one of the pockets. She shoved one of the many guns she kept on hand in her web safe houses into the waistband of her trousers.

The air outside was cool against her skin. She closed her eyes for the briefest moment and contemplated what she was about to do next. There was no doubt in her mind that the agents at the Royal London Hospital had been with the British Secret Service.

She knew why they were after her, too—they _knew_.

Natasha was a woman of many secrets, but there were some she'd buried deeper than others. Secrets that were never meant to see the light of day.

When she'd leaked S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files, along with her own, months previous, she'd been confident that her deepest, most well-kept secrets were safe. Dead and buried, like the only people who could've known of them, aside from herself.

She never expected that those same secrets would come back to haunt her like _ghosts_. She still didn't know how the rose and ribbon factored into the attack, but the list of people who would target her was a long one.

Not to mention that if the British Secret Service knew, there was a very real chance other intelligence agencies around the globe knew as well. Realistically, there was no way to take on that much heat while conducting a thorough investigation, all by herself. She needed help. And the number of people she could call had, in the span of 24 hours, reduced itself to just one.

Of course, to ask for _his_ help would be to break another rule, but 'needs must when the devil drives', wasn't that the saying? She hailed a cab and found herself pulling up in front of a black door with brass numbers and doorknob long minutes later.

221B Baker Street.

A quick study of the windows overlooking the street told her no one was home yet. She'd seen something on the news, hadn't she? A solved case. Eyeing the door a moment longer, she turned and walked round to the back. Breaking in through the bedroom window would be less conspicuous, especially when she didn't want to alert the landlady.

And of course, she wanted to avoid as much as Mycroft Holmes' security as she could. At least until she could disable it.

The inside of the flat was pleasantly warm, and the air smelled faintly of leather, cigarettes, chemicals and something else Natasha couldn't quite place. She peeled off her trench coat and draped it over one of the chairs set up in front of the fireplace. Plush charcoal grey leather, well-worn.

Her eyes strayed to the desk close by when she finished rooting around for any possible surveillance equipment, and hidden within the piles of paper and books, she caught a peek of something silver. She extracted the laptop from underneath, and carefully folded her aching body into what she could only assume was _his_ leather chair.

She'd never met him in person. Per Mycroft's instructions, Natasha wasn't allowed to make contact. She'd understood at the time but her curiosity had been enough that she'd followed his career ever since.

Opening the computer on her lap, she pulled the gun from her trousers and placed it neatly on the armrest. Her hand felt clammy against the metal, but she ignored it. She wasn't sure how long she had before he arrived, and she didn't know if his doctor friend would be with him, but she busied herself with hacking her way in.

She'd always wondered why he'd erased his study on tobacco ash from the website. Perhaps he still had it on his laptop. She could use the reading material while she waited.


	2. Chapter 2

Almost thirty minutes later, her sensitive hearing picked up the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Two men, one with a longer stride.

Natasha peeked over the screen of Sherlock's laptop when they stepped into the room. "You should never have deleted this from your website," she said by way of greeting. "You think you could e-mail it to me? I'd rather not break into your flat every time I need to identify a rare type of tobacco."

John Watson stared at her from the doorway with something halfway between confusion and curiosity. He turned his head towards Sherlock without taking his eyes off their redheaded intruder. "Client?"

"Possibly."

Sherlock's expression was altogether unreadable, but his hands were buried in the pockets of his Belstaff. Natasha wondered if he'd deduced her presence in the flat before he'd even walked up the stairs.

Suppressing the urge to ask, she snapped the laptop closed and gingerly plucked her gun from the armrest. "Should we do this properly then? I know you're armed—illegally, I might add." Her eyes darted to John in feigned disapproval.

"I have dispensation—" John began.

"No you don't," she interjected. "Don't worry, though, I can keep a secret. The question is—" She leveled her gun at Sherlock's head. "Can you boys keep mine?"

Sherlock's lips may have twitched with a smile, but he lifted John's service revolver to her head regardless. His gloved hand gripped the piece expertly. "Is this a test?"

"That's _my_ gun," John protested, but his words fell on deaf ears. He folded his arms across his chest and hung his head with a heavy sigh of disapproval.

"You're the consulting detective," Natasha answered. "You tell me if this is a test."

"I think you want a demonstration." Sherlock didn't wait for her to confirm to continue, tilting his head to sweep his eyes over her in quick assessment. "That you've been in hospital is fairly obvious from your left hand and the pallor of your skin. Royal London Hospital, wasn't it?"

John's head shot back up. "How could you possibly—" He interrupted but Sherlock cut him off.

"Shootout earlier today," he explained. "Curiously, there were no casualties. There was nothing on the news, either. The Secret Service can't afford a breakout like that to go public, but that doesn't mean they're not searching for the culprit. Mycroft texted me."

"Did he tell you to bring me in?" Natasha asked.

"He told me to be on the lookout," he answered. "But you're not here to kill me, are you? No, I think you need my help. You're hurt—quite seriously, I might add, you should really let John have a look—and whatever mystery has brought you to my doorstep will see you dead by the end of the week, if my brother doesn't get a hold of you first. Am I wrong?"

Natasha answered his question with a question. "Does that mean you won't take my case?"

"Oh, no, on the contrary." Sherlock lowered the gun and offered it to John with a dramatic sweep of his arm. "I'd be happy to take your case, Miss Romanova."

John unfolded his arms to take the offered weapon, and his fingers gripped the cool metal like they'd been missing it the whole time.

Natasha pulled back her gun and rested her elbow on the armrest, pale lips pulling into a smile. "Should I be flattered you know who I am?"

"Not at all." Sherlock removed his coat and scarf in a manner Natasha couldn't help but take keen interest in before he settled into John's chair. He pressed his hands together in front of his lips. "Anyone with working eyes and half a brain knows you who are these days. Bad news for spy work."

"What the bloody hell is going on," John spoke almost to himself, setting his piece down on the coffee table to remove his jacket. Natasha liked him instantly.

"From the beginning, then," Sherlock prompted.

Natasha set her gun back down on the armrest and dug into one of the pockets of her trench coat, still draped over the back of Sherlock's chair. She pulled the envelope, rose and ribbon out a moment later.

"Yesterday afternoon, someone dropped this off on my doorstep," she began. "I'd been staying at a hotel, just until I could scope out the few safe houses I still have in the city."

John approached Natasha while she spoke and gestured for her to show him her injuries. She tossed Sherlock the envelope and set the laptop aside to lift her shirt, sliding down in Sherlock's chair just a little. John slung his jacket over the back of a chair set up against the desk and crouched in front of her.

"Jesus…" The clean bandages she'd wrapped around her abdomen were nearly soaked through. Her fingers came away bloody when she released her shirt.

Sherlock caught the envelope in his hands and held it up as if to study it, giving her abdomen only a cursory glance. "I'm assuming you told no one where you'd be staying. Made sure you weren't being followed. Avoided being spotted by surveillance."

"I took every precaution," she confirmed, sliding further down the chair and lifting her eyes to the ceiling. John left to retrieve his medical bag. "I'm officially off the grid," she added.

"And yet the man who sent you this, whoever he may be, managed to find you."

"I have a lot of enemies," she said. "Many of them are resourceful." She lowered her eyes to study him. "You think it's a man?"

"Clearly," Sherlock said absently. "You received the envelope, with the ribbon tied around the rose's stem, and you sought out one of your old contacts hoping for an answer."

Natasha felt another smile pulling at her lips. "You're as good as your reputation."

"And you haven't disappointed yet." His piercing blue eyes met hers for only the briefest moment, but the effect was almost unnerving. She was caught off guard. "Go on," he prompted one more time.

John settled back into place in front go her and got to work. Natasha closed her eyes. "My contact had no information," she continued. "After I left him to go back to my hotel, someone dosed me with a paralytic. Long range dart gun."

"What were they after?"

John stole a glance at Sherlock over his shoulder. "They?"

"Yes, obviously," he said quickly. "One to dose her with the paralytic and another to cut her open."

Natasha opened her eyes and found John staring up at her. "You were cut open right there on the pavement?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "They were after information. A long time ago, before I defected, I had a chip about the size of a pill implanted in my body. It had upload and download capabilities. I used it to store information regarding anyone I worked for and against. It was only meant to be a Plan B, like a safeguard—"

"Hang on," John interrupted. "You said they only gave you a paralytic. You were still conscious when they cut—"

"I passed out about halfway through," Natasha said stoically by way of confirmation. "Someone must've found my body and called 999. It doesn't matter. What matters is that _that_ chip was one of my best kept secrets, and somehow someone learned of it and is now using it against me." She met Sherlock's eyes. "I need to know who and why, and I need to know before they cause irreparable damage."

Sherlock lifted the envelope with the writing facing Natasha. "You said _one_ of your best kept secrets," he said. "Any others you'd like to share? Because whoever addressed this to you, _Natalia_ , clearly meant for you to figure it out."

Natasha looked away. "Like I said, I have many enemies," she reiterated. "I've done a lot of things I regret. How am I supposed to know which one of them this person, or persons, want me to remember?"

Sherlock lowered the envelope to his lap and stared at her for a long time. John had resumed working on her stitches, this time with a brow so creased Natasha was sure he'd never smooth it out.

She suddenly felt so tired. "I attached a virus to the information on that chip," she continued quietly. "And activated it using your computer half an hour ago. It'll take effect within 24 hours, but until then, that information is up for grabs."

John finished bandaging her abdomen and closed his medical bag, scooping up the mess of bloody bandages and gauze from the floor. He met her eyes with a very stern expression, like he was lecturing her. "You are going to rest, is that clear? I've heard of the antics you and your lot get up to, but you are a human being, and that is a very serious injury you've got on you."

Natasha smiled slowly and stole a peek at Sherlock. "I like him," she announced.

Sherlock didn't return her smile, but his features softened noticeably when he met her eyes. "He has his moments."

"And I am still here," John interjected. "In case either of you wants to stop talking about me as if I'm not in the room." He moved away to toss the mess in his hands into the rubbish bin, disappearing a moment later to wash his hands.

Natasha's smiled dimmed and for the very first time in a long time, she dropped her guard. "You'll help me?"

"Yes." Sherlock gestured at her with the envelope. "I'm keeping this, by the way. And I'm going to need the precise location where you were attacked. I've no doubt I can find it on my own if I trace it back from the Royal London Hospital, but I want to be sure. I have a theory."

"Already?"

"I'm very good," he said unabashedly.

"Clearly." Natasha didn't bother suppressing her intrigue. "Do I get to hear this theory?"

"Soon as I confirm it," he evaded her. "In the mean time, I'm sure you'll do investigating of your own. You're clearly not the type that sits well, and you're quite good yourself."

"Are you flattering me again?" she teased.

"Not at all," he assured her, apparently oblivious to her tease. "You've managed to effectively evade my brother so far. You broke into my laptop. You came to me for help, and despite what is arguably a very revealing conversation about your past and present, I still don't know anything about you beyond what is strictly necessary. I suspect you've done that on purpose. When I say you're good, I don't say it to flatter," he spoke quickly. "I am stating a fact. Now, whatever you uncover, I trust you'll share with me?"

Natasha exhaled a surprised laugh. "Yes sir," she promised.

"Good." Sherlock leaned back in John's chair, absently fiddling with the envelope in his hands. She thought he might've been smiling. "Then you've hired yourself a consulting detective."

"What did I miss?" John asked when he wandered back over, drying his hands.

Natasha lowered her blouse back over her abdomen and eyed Sherlock with open curiosity. She couldn't be sure, but she had a feeling it was a curiosity that went both ways. Sherlock held her gaze.

"Nothing at all," she told John.


	3. Chapter 3

_Meet me on the roof._

Natasha pressed 'send' and stepped onto the raised ledge of the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Leaning forward, she observed the people bustling back and forth on the pavement below. A woman paced while she chattered away on her cellphone. A man blew out rings of cigarette smoke.

She looked up to see the sky already darkening overhead. Windows in the distance came to life with the warm glow of artificial light. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her trench coat, Natasha breathed in and closed her eyes.

She'd spent the last two days chasing leads to the extent her body allowed. She'd also found herself a phone. On the news there'd been nothing about an information leak, but then there never was. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse had been an exception because of the sheer magnitude and reach of their authority and subsequent corruption. With S.H.I.E.L.D., things had gone too far.

 _This_ right now was shadow warfare and personal, at least to an extent. Natasha had many questions and not nearly enough answers—too many theories and too many regrets.

Behind her, the door granting access to the roof opened and closed with a clang of metal on metal. She opened her eyes, counting Sherlock's long strides as he walked closer to the ledge. Lowering her eyes, she stole a peek at his face when he jumped up to join her.

"Have you been following me the whole time?" he asked by way of greeting.

"No." Natasha watched him slide his hands into his coat pockets. "I've been doing my own digging," she explained. "You've been busy, though."

He nodded once but didn't yet look her way. "I've developed my theory," he said. "I need you to confirm before I decide how I we should proceed."

"Do you want me to fill you in with what I've picked up on first?"

"Please," he confirmed.

"I contacted one of my old teammates back in the States," she began without preamble. "He's been called in for questioning, with assurances that it has nothing to do with S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra. Officially, I've been charged with acts of espionage against the United States, but a couple other countries have joined in. With the competence and integrity of the World Security Council in shambles, the United Nations has taken it upon itself to conduct the investigation. They had their Security Council issue a resolution."

"A little like locking the gate after the horse has bolted," he interjected.

"You would think," she agreed. "But that chip was a stroke of good fortune they they weren't counting on. Before, they couldn't very well charge me with crimes they'd overlooked in order to exploit my skill set. This chip is new, and it's solid evidence against me."

"Odd, how quickly they learned of its existence," Sherlock replied with just a hint of drama. "You'd think they'd known beforehand, and were only waiting for confirmation."

Natasha turned towards him on the ledge. "So you agree? Whoever targeted me in the first place, with the ribbon and rose, is working with someone—"

"Or many someones—"

"With legitimate power." She hesitated. "Is that your theory?"

"Part of it, yes." Sherlock finally turned to look at her and took a step forward.

Natasha didn't know him well enough to know with certainty what his demeanor was conveying, but she thought maybe he looked uncertain. His blue eyes darted to the side and he pressed his lips together all of two seconds, as if gathering himself to speak. He straightened to his full height.

"It's my theory that whoever sent you that rose and ribbon—and we'll get to both in a moment—has uncovered at least two of these secrets you mentioned burying so long ago. It stands to reason that this person's ultimate goal isn't to kill you outright, but to drag you through the mud, now, when you are most vulnerable and your position is most precarious."

"A lesson," Natasha said thoughtfully. "Sounds vaguely familiar."

"Yes," he confirmed, but quickly pressed on. "While I do believe the stolen chip is related to the rose and ribbon to an extent, I also believe that both events were orchestrated and carried out by separate parties working towards different, but harmonious goals," he continued. "One who's targeting your vulnerabilities to teach you a lesson, perhaps as a form of revenge. And another who's attempting to bring you to justice—or their perceived form of justice—by any means necessary. Do you see?"

Natasha lowered her eyes to the tips of her boots in thought. "It makes sense," she said at last. "While S.H.I.E.L.D. was up and running I had an additional layer of protection that would've made it difficult for anyone to do something like this with even a small measure of success. Now that they're out of the picture, they're free to target me as they please. I suppose…" she trailed off very briefly. "I suppose an old KGB splinter group working through the United Nations makes sense. Many thought the KGB died out by 1991—"

"But that's not entirely accurate, yes, I know." Sherlock's gaze was unnervingly intense when Natasha's eyes flicked up to meet his.

"You said you'd get back to the rose and ribbon," she continued.

Sherlock nodded once. " _Remember, Natalia_ ," he said first. "Once I'd deduced that two different forces were at play, even if they were working together, the motivations for each were easy enough uncover. You mentioned, when you paid me a visit, having done many things your regret. It became clear to me that this couldn't possibly be about that. You face whatever dark deeds you've done in the past on a daily basis, doing what you do. You exposed most of them when you exposed S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra. _This_ was something you'd buried deep. Something you couldn't fix, regardless of how many lives you saved." He paused uncertainly. "I went through the file you leaked on the internet."

"I didn't tell S.H.I.E.L.D. everything when I went to work for them," she said quickly.

"Yes, I deduced as much," he confirmed. "But the—" He quietly cleared his throat.

It finally dawned on Natasha that the uncertainty she thought she was witnessing, was in fact Sherlock attempting to be respectful and gentle. She didn't know whether to smile or cry, but she was touched that he'd put in the effort.

She spoke for him to ease the awkwardness. "The graduation ceremony," she said. "Yes, we're sterilized."

He nodded once. "But before that—two years prior, to be exact—there's a death on your record that differs from the others. A KGB agent, still active and, presumably, loyal when he died. He wasn't a hit."

"Ivan," Natasha supplied for him.

"A ribbon tied round the finger is often used as a reminder," he continued. "Black suggests grief. If the rose is in fact connected to the ribbon, I doubt it was Ivan you were mourning the loss of, even if he was the man to save you from the fire that allegedly killed your parents."

Natasha would never come to grips with the fact that so much of her past was public. She'd exposed herself for a good reason—a _noble_ reason—but there was no denying that her actions had consequences, both public and personal. She brushed the uneasy feeling aside and brought the memory forth to fill in the blanks.

"I was sixteen," she began, haltingly. "Ivan had been with the KGB for several years, by then, and he'd kept an eye on me throughout." She hesitated, but her expression remained stoic. "One night, he drugged me… forced himself on me—and I killed him. I wasn't punished or anything. The Red Room doesn't appreciate it when its agents break rules." She paused again. "The Red Room also had this saying: 'hunger sharpens the mind'. Between the stress, the physical strain of my training, and the lack of proper nutrition…"

"You lost the baby," he finished for her.

Natasha looked away. "I don't know if it counts as 'losing' when she never felt like she was mine to begin with."

Sherlock's tone was still that same oddly gentle baritone that probably wasn't meant to be reassuring, but still was. "And yet you named her."

Natasha smiled sadly. "I always loved roses."

Silence stretched between them. Sherlock eventually stepped off the ledge and took a seat on the cold concrete, gloved hands clasped together. Natasha followed suit, careful not to push her body further than she already had. She stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed them at the ankles.

"Ivan is dead, and so is the man who implanted the chip in my abdomen," she continued. "Even if the latter knew about the baby, and he did, he's not alive to share that information with anyone. I destroyed all other evidence."

"Which means he must've told someone else before he died," Sherlock concluded. "The question is, who would he trust to keep his secret? I doubt he'd risk incurring your wrath by leaking the information to an unreliable third party."

Natasha was quiet a short few seconds. "He had a son," she said finally. "Arkady. He was young at the time his father performed the surgery, but it's possible he might've told him when he grew. He left Russia a couple of years ago," she explained. "And he's been living in the UK ever since."

"Then I think it's time for us to pay him a visit," Sherlock decided. "How do you feel about stealing a car?"

Natasha smiled very faintly and swiveled her head to look at him. "Depends on the car," she said in humor. "Your brother's?"

Sherlock winked and nodded his confirmation. "Only the best for Mycroft Holmes. I trust you can get a hold of Arkady's location?"

"I'll need access to your laptop, but yes."

"Good, we'll retrieve it from my flat in a minute." Sherlock rose to his feet and buttoned up his Belstaff.

Night had fallen completely, but the light from below cast his profile in shadow. He popped his collar, highlighting the sweep of his cheekbone and the clear blue of his eyes. He looked severe, pushing his hands back inside his coat pockets.

Natasha observed him in silence until he finally looked her way. Her smile grew. "Ready?"

His lips pulled up at the corner. "Ready."


	4. Chapter 4

It was almost 9:30 p.m. by the time Sherlock and Natasha got their hands on (read: _stole)_ Mycroft's car. John had already settled in for the night with Mary, but still accepted their offer to tag along when they called. Perhaps he was afraid of what Sherlock and Natasha might get up to if he wasn't around to supervise—that he'd find them dead, or worse.

He folded his body into the back seat of the sleek black Jaguar when they pulled up in front of his house, closing the door behind him. "This is different," he said by way of greeting. "Where are we going?"

"Cambridge." Natasha turned her head to peek at him from the passenger seat. "We can switch places on the way back."

John nodded once, relaxing his his seat once Sherlock pulled away from the house. They exchanged a look through the rearview mirror that Natasha couldn't quite decipher.

John cleared his throat. "So," he began again. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was cut open and left to die on the pavement three days ago." Natasha flashed him a smile. "I've been a very obedient patient, Dr Watson," she assured him primly. "Been taking my pills and everything."

John huffed quietly in amusement. "And rest?"

"Now you're asking too much of me," she teased.

Sherlock eyed her from the driver's seat and smiled very subtly when he caught her eye. "He'll lecture you," he told her.

"She needs lecturing," John deadpanned, but there was no bite to his tone. Natasha laughed. "What are you dragging me into now?" he continued.

"An interrogation," Sherlock said vaguely. "More or less."

"Arkady," Natasha supplied, explaining the details of her previous conversation with Sherlock, but leaving out anything to do with Ivan or the baby she'd unwillingly conceived and lost. "Sherlock thinks he might have a name for us. If all goes well, it should lead us to whoever else is behind this."

There was a bit of a pregnant pause. "And what happens when you find these people, whoever they are," John prompted cautiously.

Natasha exchanged another look with Sherlock. He knew what she planned to do, there was no doubt in her mind. Even if he hadn't said so out loud. He was also still helping her. She didn't know whether or not John would condone that course of action, but she decided against telling him. He reminded her a little of Steve, and Steve wouldn't approve.

She turned her eyes ahead. "I'll cross that bridge when I get to it," she said diplomatically.

They spent the two-hour drive up to Cambridge in relative silence. Sherlock seemed to prefer it, and Natasha suddenly found herself in a contemplative mood.

Eventually, they arrived at Cambridge's Mill Road and Sherlock slowed the car so they could scope out the area. A few pubs, restaurants and cafés here and there dotted the otherwise empty street. Arkady's place was a little hole in the wall apartment one flight up from the dingy pub with a neon sign.

Natasha reached over and squeezed Sherlock's army to draw his attention to it, prompting a quick flash of blue eyes to meet hers. She tipped her chin towards the place. "What do you think?"

Sherlock found an inconspicuous spot to park the Jaguar, with the flat still within view. Leaning over the steering wheel, he narrowed his eyes to inspect it. The windows had been covered in newspaper, but one of them was open. The inside was dark, save maybe for one lamp. Natasha couldn't tell.

His eyes darted down to the pub. "He owns it," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, owns what?" John leaned in between the seats.

"Pub," Natasha supplied. "You don't think he's in his apartment?"

Sherlock turned his head as if to shake it, but his eyes never left the building or the people wandering in and out of it. "Unlikely," he concluded.

"I can draw him out." Natasha loosened the blood-red scarf around her neck. "Give me fifteen minutes. I'll bring him up and we'll question him in his apartment. Think you can break in?"

"Sherlock, I don't think—" John began.

"Yes," Sherlock spoke over him.

"Fifteen minutes," Natasha reaffirmed, and slipped out of the car, shutting the door behind her.

John watched Sherlock follow Natasha with his eyes as she rounded the front of the car and disappeared inside the pub. He made a quiet noise of satisfaction and leaned back in his seat.

"You like her," he said smugly.

Sherlock shot him a _look_ through the rearview mirror and climbed out of the car. "Come on, we don't have long."

Fifteen minutes was all Natasha needed. She'd found a picture of Arkady while she'd been tracking his movements in Cambridge on Sherlock's laptop, but it wouldn't have been necessary. He looked like a younger version of his father, with the addition of thick, black glasses and too-tight skinny jeans. She cajoled him into taking her upstairs with suggestive smiles and flirty winks, and dropped the act once they'd stepped across the threshold.

Sherlock was sitting in a rickety wooden chair, thumbing through a battered notebook he'd opened up on his lap. John stopped his pacing and crossed his arms over his chest, turning to face them

Arkady's head whipped around to look at Natasha. "What is this?"

Natasha shrugged and locked the door. "A party?"

"This is your father's notebook," Sherlock announced without looking up. "You've been attempting to carry on with his work." His eyes flicked to Arkady's face. "You shouldn't have."

"Look, if this is about—"

Sherlock snapped the notebook closed. "We're here for one thing and one thing only," he interrupted.

"Years ago, your father and I knew each other," Natasha continued seamlessly. "I had him build something for me and implant it in my body. Ringing any bells?"

Arkady's eyes went wide. "Oh, God," he said weakly. "You're _her_ aren't you? He said you'd come—"

"Who?" Natasha prowled forward like a wolf stalking prey. "Who said I'd come?"

"I don't have a name! Not—not a _real_ name, I swear—" Arkady stammered. He lifted his hands and shuffled backwards, towards the open window. "Please, just—you have to understand! I'm bleeding money, and this guy—"

"Give me the name," Natasha pressed.

"Navi," Arkady said hurriedly. "He said his name was—"

Everything happened too quickly. A shot rang out. Arkady crumpled to the floor and a growing pool of red. John knocked Sherlock out of the chair and covered him with his body.

Natasha had just enough time to dart behind a dirty couch before the second shot rang out. And then the third. She drew her gun and closed her eyes to focus. _Dragunov sniper rifle_. _Russian made_. _No more than two stories up across the street._ She knew the weight and length. She knew the muzzle velocity. What she didn't know was who was wielding it.

"Stay down," she called to Sherlock and John when the bullets ceased. "Don't move."

"Wait!" Sherlock called out, but she was already in pursuit mode.

Without another word, she took off through the front door and snaked her way through shadows to the building across the street. She had only the time it took to disassemble a Dragunov to locate this person, assuming he or she hadn't simply left it behind.

When she finally reached the fourth floor of the building across from Arkady's flat, it was empty. Or so she thought.

Natasha had taken no more than two steps into the room before she caught sight of a slim blonde reclining on a twin-sized bed, red lips parted in a dangerous smile.

The Dragunov was already disassembled and back in its case. She was quick. But then of course she would be. She was a Black Widow after all.

"Yelena." Natasha raised her gun. "I thought we agreed to stay out of each other's way."

"I thought we did too." Yelena sat up straight and raised herself off the mattress. "But then you went and leaked information about all of us, you—"

"That wasn't me," Natasha interrupted.

Yelena's eyes flashed with annoyance. "Who else, if not you? "

"I'd have an answer for you if you hadn't just killed my one and only lead," Natasha said dryly.

"And why should I believe you?" Yelena stepped forward and there was menace in every line of her body. "You and I both know that we're not in the business of being truthful. You've been spying on all of us. On _me_ —"

"If it helps," Natasha interjected. "You're really not that interesting."

Yelena lunged for her and Natasha's bullet only managed to clip her shoulder. It only served to make Yelena angrier.

They went at each other with lethal intention, and Natasha's body protested every movement. She tried explaining between punches, kicks and dodges, but Yelena wasn't having any of it. It wasn't until Natasha pinned her down and jabbed the tip of her gun underneath her jaw that she got her to listen.

"Yelena," she said raggedly. "I will fix this. You know you can't fix it yourself, but I _can_. I'm the only one who can. You're welcome to try and kill me afterwards if you still feel so inclined."

"Then fix it, _suka_ ," she spat. "Or your new friends will suffer the consequences. _Remember._ "

Natasha almost pulled the trigger right then, if only as a precaution, but then where would she draw the line? What would be the difference between the monster she used to be, and who she was now? What would stop her from becoming Yelena, lost and purposeless?

She rolled off her body and rose to her feet, drawing on unknown reserves of strength to keep herself upright. "Stay away from them," she said dangerously. "Your fight is with me. Now, go."

Yelena snorted and pushed herself up, stalking over to retrieve the case housing her Dragunov only a second later. "Pathetic, _Natalia_ ," she called as she walked away. "There always was something _defective_ about you."

Natasha managed to hold herself up just long enough to hear Yelena's footsteps disappear down the hallway. And then she collapsed, knees connecting with the floor as she snaked a shaking arm around her bleeding stomach. She didn't hear the sounds of footsteps again until it was too late, and lifted her gun to greet her visitors.

She was sweating and pale, but her expression was one of grim determination. John stuttered to a stop just a few steps behind Sherlock. There was perhaps a beat of hesitation, and then he was both Captain and Doctor, issuing orders.

"Pick her up," he told Sherlock. "We need to take her to a hospital."

"No hospitals," Natasha breathed, clumsily lowering her gun to the ground. "Please."

"You _need_ a hospital," he pressed.

"They'll come for me," she said. "I won't survive it." Natasha felt Sherlock's arms hook around her back and under her knees. She was heavy, she knew, but he still picked her up with minor effort and only minimal jostling.

"You won't survive it if you keep going like this either," John retorted as they started walking.

"No hospitals," she reiterated.

"I'll look you over in the car," John decided. "We'll discuss our next steps afterwards."

Natasha rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder and closed her eyes.

"Navi," he said quietly after a long moment of silence.

"World of the dead," she provided under her breath.

"Yes, but also," he added with an unmistakeable undercurrent of intrigue, clutching her closer and bowing his head to speak, " _Ivan_."

"Impossible," she argued immediately, barely feeling the cool air against her clammy skin when they stepped outside. "Killed him myself."

"I'm familiar with the feeling," he said knowingly. "But then, it wouldn't be the first time a dead man rises to haunt the living, would it?"

Natasha opened her eyes and tipped her head back to study his profile. "You'd know that from experience," she commented.

Sherlock met her eyes. "Ghosts," he quoted dramatically, "are nothing if not capricious."


	5. Chapter 5

"You should be fine, but I want you to call for me if there's any change. Is that clear?"

John was sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Natasha, staring down at her with stern blue eyes. She smiled tiredly and nodded her head once, dragging the covers further up on her chest.

They'd put her in Sherlock's bed for convenience. She would've happily taken John's room instead, but since his departure almost two years previous, the room had been stripped bare of its furnishings.

On the drive over from Cambridge, they'd made a deal.

Natasha had popped her stitches while fighting with Yelena, but no further damage had been done. John still insisted on taking her to the clinic for a more in depth examination, but there was only so much he could do. He didn't have the equipment to be more thorough, and Natasha flat out refused to go to the hospital every time it was brought up. For all his authority, John couldn't force her to go if she didn't want to.

She'd finally agreed to stay under Sherlock's watchful eye the next 24 hours, in lieu of proper medical supervision. Sherlock himself hadn't expressed an opinion one way or another, leading her to believe he'd tuned them both out as soon as he'd settled behind the wheel to drive them back to London.

She was itching to get him alone and discuss the conclusion he'd come to concerning Ivan, but apparently her health came first.

"Sir, yes sir," she quipped in much the same way she was used to around Steve.

"Good." John smiled at her, very faintly, and stood from the bed. He patted himself down as if to make sure he wasn't missing anything. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." He snatched his jacket with one hand, gesturing for Sherlock to walk him out with the other. "Get some rest."

Both men slipped out of the room, and a few minutes late, Sherlock returned with an old, beat up notebook, a glass of water and no John Watson. He offered Natasha the glass as he lowered himself to the bed.

"Doctor's orders," he announced. "Or something."

Natasha propped herself up on an elbow and took the glass off his hands.

"Thanks," she spoke against the rim.

" _Pozhaluysta_ ," he retorted in perfect Russian.

Natasha lowered the glass once she'd downed a significant portion, eyeing him in curiosity. "You're full of surprises."

"I don't know what you mean." Sherlock plucked the glass out of her hand and set it down on the bedside table.

Natasha exhaled a tired laugh, carefully maneuvering herself to lean against the headboard. "I think you do," she said once she'd managed it, green eyes intent on his face. "How did you know where I'd be?"

"Simple calculation based on bullet trajectory," he said matter-of-factly. "You would know, you did some of that yourself tonight as well. You're good."

"Lifetime of practice," she assured him.

He met her gaze as if in challenge. "Clearly," he said, and waited for her to continue.

Natasha gestured to the traditional Judo certificate framed and hanging above his bed. "You practice Judo."

"I dabble," he said vaguely.

"You do more than dabble," she persisted. "Eighth dan. Only about fifteen people have ever been awarded the tenth by the Kodokan."

" _Exactly_ fifteen," he corrected. "Unless you happen to know of one more."

Natasha smiled enigmatically. "I wouldn't be at liberty to say if I did."

"I'll take that as confirmation," he concluded.

Natasha dropped her hand to the mattress, expression soft. "It must be difficult."

Sherlock's brows drew together in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"The cases, the violin, the experiments, the judo," she listed. "There's a theme. Every one of those activities requires mental discipline to one degree or another, and you're engaging in all of them." She paused. "I'm saying it must be difficult to have a mind as gifted as yours."

Sherlock's features smoothed into an impassive mask, and he lowered his eyes to the notebook on his lap. "I see everything," he said with a hint of drama. "That is my curse."

Natasha studied him for the space of a few heartbeats before she spoke again. "Tell me about Ivan," she prompted.

Sherlock tapped his finger once against the notebook's cover and opened it. "That Navi is his name spelled backwards is exceedingly obvious, but I believe the reference to the 'world of the dead' you pointed out earlier was intentional," he began. "You put him there—"

"And he escaped," she said tightly.

"But, nevertheless, it's where he intends to put you as well," he concluded.

"After he's dragged me through the mud." Natasha fixed her eyes on the notebook. "Is that Arkady's?"

Sherlock placed it in her hands. "It's about control," he continued. "He sends you the rose and ribbon to remind you of what he perceives as your betrayal. He exposes you to the authorities by revealing another of your secrets—that chip in your abdomen, containing a world of sensitive information. Here," he scooted closer to her on the mattress and flipped the notebook's pages almost to the end, where several had been ripped out, "I believe he tore out the pages detailing the procedure and location of the chip in your body, based on what's written in the previous pages. The United Nations, and indeed any government agency with the resources to go after you, would require proof."

"Which means that no matter what I do about Ivan, this isn't over until I find who's working with him on the inside and the evidence to put him away."

Natasha stared at the open notebook in thought. This wasn't something she ever anticipated dealing with after she'd killed Ivan so many years ago. The memories were unwelcome and unwanted. She didn't like being reminded of the horror. Of the helplessness and fear and painful vulnerability not only during, but in the aftermath.

"By now the virus I activated a couple of days ago will have taken effect," she said at length.

"Good news for you." Sherlock met her eyes when she looked up. "The virus would destroy every device the information has been downloaded to and from, correct?"

Natasha followed his line of thought. "You're suggesting I allow myself to be captured and questioned?"

"Whoever's working with Ivan will, without a doubt, seize the opportunity to take you into custody," he confirmed.

"I'll need to stop by my safe house," she decided. "I have tech that will help."

"Tomorrow," he agreed.

Natasha closed the notebook and gave it back to him without another word. "Are you coming with?"

"Of course," he answered immediately, and winked. "I intend to see this case through to the end."

Natasha tipped her head back against the headboard and flashed another tired smile. "Still don't regret taking my case?"

"On the contrary." Sherlock moved away and stood from the bed in one graceful motion, hesitating as if he wasn't sure whether he should stay or leave. "John insisted I should keep a close eye on you."

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Where are you sleeping?"

"The couch, if I sleep at all," he said dismissively. "It's likelier that I'll play the violin. I need to think. Would that bother you?"

Natasha shook her head once. "Violin music is my favorite," she admitted.

He looked almost pleased. "In that case, any preferences?"

"Swan Lake," she said after a short pause. "Do you know it?"

"Tchaikovsky," he said by way of confirmation. "I'm familiar…" He trailed off very briefly as if he were thinking. "I was right in my initial assessment. You're a dancer."

"I dabble," she echoed.

Sherlock didn't smile, but Natasha thought maybe he might've been amused. "I'll try to do it justice," he promised.

Natasha smiled again after he left the room and leaned over to click the lamp off. She shifted herself carefully on the bed until she was comfortable and closed her eyes. She felt so tired and heavy, and yet she couldn't find it in herself to let her guard down and sleep.

She'd almost given up hope, when the first notes of the Swan's Theme drifted through the open door. Closing her eyes, she allowed her thoughts to drift in another direction. Pointe shoes on wooden floors and pirouettes so perfect she thought she might take off and fly away.

Sleep wasn't far behind.


	6. Chapter 6

"This… is… _insanity_." John made a careful incision in the palm of Natasha's hand and inserted a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued sub-dermal cybernetic implant about the size of a pill into the opening. Despite its size, the implant was state of the art and equipped with full recording and transmission capabilities.

Natasha liked to hoard her stolen tech for rainy days and she'd been saving this one for months. Catching John's eye, she smiled.

"I've done worse," she assured him.

"As have I," Sherlock droned from his chair.

John's expression was entirely disapproving. "I don't know whether that's cause for worry or admiration."

"Probably both," Sherlock and Natasha answered in unison.

Natasha smiled when their eyes met across the room. Sherlock lowered his hands to the armrests of his chair.

"I'm sure Miss Romanova can handle herself, John," he continued with his own little smirk. "In the meantime, we've got our own mission to take care of."

"Finding Ivan," John confirmed, positioning a layer of synthetic skin over the cut in Natasha's hand. Within seconds, it merged seamlessly with her skin. "That's remarkable," he informed her.

"It's still in development." Natasha took her hand back and smoothed a thumb over the patch. "S.H.I.E.L.D. was working with Doctor Helen Cho, before they revealed themselves as Hydra, and this was one of the few prototypes I snagged on my way out the door. It's temporary. We mostly used it for fingerprint duplication, but I think it serves its purpose here too."

"How long will it last?" he asked.

"About a week," she answered after some consideration. "Give or take a day."

"I still think it's remarkable." John glanced at Sherlock while he tidied up around Natasha. "So, what does finding Ivan entail, exactly?"

"Solving a puzzle." Sherlock uncrossed his legs with a flourish and approached his clue wall in three long strides, vaulting over the coffee table. He came to a stop in front of the couch.

John shot him a _look_. "Oi," he protested, snatching his medical bag out of the way. "Careful where you step."

Natasha scooted to a corner of the couch and tucked her legs underneath. She'd showered and changed into a clean blouse and trousers earlier in the afternoon, when they'd visited her safe house to retrieve the implant and synthetic skin.

Sherlock didn't spare a glance for either of them. "Ivan clearly wants Miss Romanova to find him," he began, blue eyes scanning the papered wall in front of him. A plastic bag with the rose and ribbon were pinned to it front and center, with the envelope beside them. "It's possible he didn't anticipate just how many people would be after her now that S.H.I.E.L.D. is no longer around, or how eager they'd be to retrieve the information she'd hidden in her body. All this time he's been attempting to rattle her, not kill her, which leads me to believe this is about reasserting control over her, first and foremost."

John stepped away to find a rubbish bin while Natasha unfolded herself from her spot and stood bare-footed on the couch. She faced the wall with her hands on her hips.

"Okay, so let's start with the basics," she said. "Who attacked me the day I received the rose and ribbon and why? What's their play?"

"Someone in the SIS working for Ivan, possibly reporting to the United Nations," Sherlock provided. "Ivan would need to confirm the information on that chip before he dispersed it to whatever parties he'd promised it to."

"Right, so would this person or persons have any idea where he is?"

Sherlock briefly placed his hands on his hips as well. "Unlikely."

Natasha hummed in agreement. "Coward never would take the risk, would he?"

"Cowards rarely do." He reached past her to snatch the rose and ribbon from the wall. "I found traces of sediment in this ribbon inherent to Eastern Moscow," he continued, "near the _Klyazma_ River. There's a cemetery nearby—"

"The _Rogozhskoye_ Cemetery." Natasha turned to face him and reached over to touch the plastic bag in his hands. "I never thought they'd buried her," she explained. "It was likelier they'd thrown her body out with the trash. You think this is where he's drawing me to?"

"I know it is," he answered with a confident nod of his head. "He must also be living somewhere nearby. I'll have the specific location for you very soon."

Natasha retrieved her hand and once again settled it on her hip. "I still don't know how he could've survived."

"A query that will plague you until you find an answer," he said knowingly.

"Any advice?"

"None that wouldn't be detrimental to your health." Sherlock half turned to deposit the plastic bag on the coffee table, but once again straightened in front of her. They were eye to eye, with the couch's added height, and close enough that Natasha could identify the scent of his soap. She was all too familiar with it already, having slept in his bed, and she found the scent of it oddly comforting.

"You're going to kill him," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes," she answered simply. "If he's got allies in the SIS, United Nations and who knows how many governments, I can't risk leaving him alive."

"What of the woman who shot Arkady?"

Natasha had seen Sherlock's extraordinary mind at work several times already, but she was still surprised. "You know it was a woman?"

"I know more than that."

Natasha bit back a smile. "She told me she'd come after you," she explained. "And John, but I won't let her get to either of you. You're safe. You have my word." She paused for effect but didn't break eye contact. "Does that answer your question?"

Sherlock studied her features carefully. "Yes."

Natasha smiled fully. "You trust me?"

"I trust your skill, your intelligence and your determination to protect those you value," he listed. "Whatever the cost."

Natasha's gaze didn't waver. "You're not scared of me," she pressed.

"You're not scared of me either," he retorted. "Curious, for a woman with so many secrets. Is that trust? Do you trust me, _Natalia_?"

Natasha felt goosebumps rise on her skin when he said her name. She wondered if she could get him to say it again. Bracing herself with a hand on his chest, she leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to the warm skin of his cheek.

His chest rose against her palm and she smiled, this time speaking against his ear. "Yes, I trust you," she answered honestly.

John cleared his throat, leaning halfway out of the kitchen with one of his hands gripping the edge of a sliding door. Natasha pulled back and Sherlock turned away to begin an abrupt bout of pacing, like two children caught doing something they really shouldn't be doing.

"I'm making tea," John announced, flashing a quick, amused smile. "Either of you fancy a cuppa? I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"I was just about to leave." Natasha climbed off the couch to grab her boots. "Once I'm captured, give me forty-eight hours before you come pick me up. I'll need the ride."

John straightened and stepped fully into the room. "You're sure you don't want to wait a few days? At least until you've somewhat recovered from yesterday."

"No." Natasha zipped up her boots and flashed him a smile. "I've pushed through worse injuries, don't worry."

"You know, you keep saying that," he said. "Doesn't make what you're doing now any better. You _are_ human."

"So you keep telling me." Natasha retrieved her coat from the back of Sherlock's chair and turned towards him. "See you in a few days?"

Sherlock ruffled his curls and nodded once. "We'll be there," he confirmed. "Until then, Miss Romanova."

"Natasha," she requested. "Or Natalia, if you prefer," she added over her shoulder just before she disappeared through the door. Sherlock met her gaze and she winked. "See you, John," she added as she climbed down the stairs.

A moment later, the front door open and closed. Sherlock waltzed back over to his chair and settled in, studiously ignoring John's curious gaze.

"What," he said shortly.

"Nothing." John shrugged casually. "Just flexing my observational muscles."

"Careful you don't hurt yourself."

"Sherlock, when this is over—"

"She'll disappear and we'll go back to business as usual," he finished for him.

"I'm just saying," John persisted, turning back into the kitchen. "I think she likes you too, mate."

Sherlock could still feel her lips where they'd brushed against his cheek, and in spite of himself, he smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

"Miss Romanova." Mycroft Holmes stood in front of a large metal door, barring Natasha's escape from the concrete cell holding her captive. He wore a black pinstripe three-piece. Shirt and tie combination in complementary shades of blue. He stared down his nose at her, buttoning his suit. "I thought I told you to stay away from my brother."

"I rarely do what I'm told." Natasha had her back to the room, green eyes riveted to one of the walls. The surface had been spackled and painted to match the concrete's original color, but near the top where it joined with the ceiling, scratches were still visible. She turned her head to look at Mycroft. "Is this where you put James Moriarty?"

"It's secure," he explained.

"And off the books," she retorted, facing him fully. "No cameras either."

Mycroft tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. "How very observant of you."

Natasha stepped away from the wall, arms straining against the straitjacket they'd strapped her into. "Is there a reason you chose this thing for me?"

"You and I both know that cuffs would do little to stop you, should you attempt an escape."

"I'd still have to get through that door," she argued. "30 millimeters thick? No hinges on this side, no handle," she assessed. "It's no easy feat."

Mycroft smiled a cold little smile. "And yet, I'm sure you'd find a way."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence." Natasha stopped walking when she reached the center of the room, tracking Mycroft with her eyes when he moved around the edge. "Who's here to see me?"

He flicked his eyes over her. "What makes you think there's anyone here to see you?"

"Your hands in your pockets," she offered with a quick smile. "You fidget when you're anxious."

Mycroft stopped in front of the one-way mirror to study his reflection. "A gentleman representing the United Nations' Security Council is here to ask you a few questions," he finally confirmed, half turning to face her.

"Here? Or am I being transferred?"

"Here, at my request. He asked for complete privacy, however."

Natasha glanced at the one-way mirror. "Which means no peeking," she concluded.

Mycroft bowed his head in assent. "And, as you pointed out earlier, no cameras either."

"No surprise there." Natasha tore her eyes away, taking the last step over to the metal bench bolted to the floor. She folded herself onto it and crossed her legs at the knee. "Send him in."

"You act like you had a choice in the matter." Mycroft swept past her to the door, rapped on it twice with his knuckles.

"You should know by now, _Mycroft_ , I always have a say in the matter." She plastered a friendly smile on her face, baring her teeth. "Send him in," she repeated.

As if on cue, Mycroft stepped back and the door opened to reveal four men all in black kevlar, flanking another man in a dark blue suit. He was bald, clean-shaven, and shorter than Mycroft by a head.

He stepped into the room with his hands behind his back. "Miss Romanova," he greeted in a subtle Russian accent.

"I'll be in my office." Mycroft excused himself, signaling to whoever stood behind the one-way mirror that Natasha should be left alone as he walked out of the room.

He closed the door on the beginnings of an interrogation, only to be met with his brother sauntering towards him. Mycroft ordered the men in kevlar to stay put and ushered Sherlock further down the hall, turning a corner into his office.

"This isn't another Irene Adler situation, is it, brother dear?" Mycroft asked once he'd reclined in his black leather chair. "I overlooked Karachi because it wasn't British soil, but this compound here would be another story entirely."

Sherlock took a seat across the desk from him, gingerly taking off his gloves. "There is no Irene Adler situation."

Mycroft smiled pleasantly. "Isn't there?"

"Certainly not in the way you think," he retorted.

"And you would presume to know what I think?"

Sherlock pinned him with the blue-eyed stare of a man who'd endured this same conversation several times already. "Irene Adler inspired mere intellectual curiosity," he repeated. "A mystery worth solving until I solved it."

"Is that so?" Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, pressing a button to call in the usual tea service when Sherlock paid a visit. "And you lost interest in Miss Adler once the mystery was solved, did you?"

"I did," Sherlock answered emphatically. "I was returning a favor—repaying a debt, if you will—in Karachi. 'Victory without cruelty; defeat without pride', isn't that what you taught me?"

"You've certainly ignored 'defeat without pride'," Mycroft quipped.

"I wouldn't let Scotland Yard take as much of the credit as it does if I didn't, at least partially, heed your maxim."

"Natasha is different, then?"

"Natasha is, in many ways, the complete opposite of Irene Adler," Sherlock replied. "A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma."

"Is that admiration, I hear?"

"What about you?" Sherlock turned the tables. "I seem to recall you being recently _enthralled_ with a woman of your own. What was her name? Naomi—"

"Stop," Mycroft cut him off only a second before there was a knock on the door, announcing their tea service had arrived.

Sherlock stood to receive the tray, closing the door behind him once he had it in his hands. "Are we quite done with that conversation?"

"I'm only looking out for you," Mycroft insisted.

"Your 'looking out' feels, at best, like meddling," Sherlock retorted. "And at worst like stalking, _Big Brother_."

"Fine, let's get on with it." Mycroft let it go with a flick of his hand. "Why are you here,?"

Sherlock placed the tray on the desk to offer a readied cup of tea. "Seeing a case through to the end," he answered simply. "Are you keeping her in custody, or handing her over to that agent you left her with? What was his name?"

"Vladislav Nureyev." Mycroft accepted the cup and sipped from it, leaning back in his chair. "I've advised our head of intelligence on the matter. It is my belief that keeping her here would be beneficial in a number of ways, but the decision is out of my hands."

Sherlock tapped a finger against his cup. "Letting her go would be tantamount to a death sentence, depending on whom you choose to hand her over to," he said thoughtfully.

"A death sentence that, some might say, she's _earned_ ," Mycroft pointed out.

"Since when do the opinions of others matter to you, brother dear?"

Mycroft set his cup and saucer down with a shaky hand and furrowed brows. "They don't," he assured his brother, but his tone was dismissive now. "Sherlock, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Why? What's wrong?" Sherlock discarded his own cup, walking round the desk to his brother. "You look pale."

"I…" Mycroft shook his head as if to clear it. "I've been…"

"Drugged, yes." Sherlock cleared a space on Mycroft's desk and gently nudged him forward so that he wouldn't hit his head when he went down. "I'm afraid that was me."

Mycroft was fading quickly, but he managed to fold an arm over the surface with a little bit of fumbling before his head dropped forward. "Tea," he slurred.

"Yes." Sherlock searched Mycroft for his access card, tucked it in his pocket once he found it. "You're a creature of habit and far too fond of your tea service," he quipped. "Don't worry, it's very mild. I thought perhaps you'd appreciate not being involved in our little operation. You know, _treason_ and all that." He stepped away from the desk and added, "I'm only looking out for you."

He slipped out of the room a moment later and quietly shut the door behind him. Everything was quiet and still out in the hallway. He knew that at any given time Mycroft's little 'off the books' compound housed a small unit for security, in addition to the three clearance checkpoints everyone was expected to clear before they were allowed inside.

The whole of the underground structure was small, built for security and functionality more than anything else. There was no video or audio surveillance anywhere near the interrogation rooms—to preserve the secrecy of whatever questionable interrogation methods were used within their walls, naturally—but the compound was by no means unprotected.

Sherlock retraced his steps to Natasha's cell and found the same four guards in kevlar guarding the heavy metal door. He drew four of her electrical 'stingers' from his trouser pocket—metal, round and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand—and used them to take them out before they had a chance to question his presence.

From here on out, their time was limited. He checked his watch and used Mycroft's access card to open the door.

Inside, Natasha had already slipped out of her straitjacket. She'd dragged Vladislav to his knees and held him there, breathless and bleeding from his nose, with an arm round his neck.

"Please help me!" he pleaded when Sherlock stepped inside the room. "She's insane! She's going to kill me!"

Natasha didn't bother correcting him. "Grab his belt for me, would you?"

"You got what you needed?" Sherlock snapped his coat back so the excess fabric wouldn't interfere, and leaned over to take the man's belt. He offered it to her a moment later, studying her work with keen interest.

Natasha took the belt from Sherlock's hand to loop it around Vladislav's hands. "I did," she answered, catching his eye with a faint smile. "You're enjoying this."

"Watching you, yes," he admitted without hesitation.

Once Natasha had Vladislav's hands secured behind his back, she knocked him out, dragged him to the metal bench, and tethered him to one of the legs.

Sherlock checked his watch again. "Forty-five past midnight. We don't have long."

"I'm ready." Natasha straightened and walked over, rolling her shoulders in an effort to ease the inevitable soreness. Without the straitjacket, she was left in the generic t-shirt, cotton trousers, and tennis shoes prisoners were given upon arrival. She brushed a thumb over the patch of synthetic skin hiding the chip she'd asked John to insert in the palm of her hand. "He got really chatty, really quickly once he was properly motivated. I'll leave the chip with you before I leave to take care of Ivan. You found him?"

"I did." Sherlock walked ahead to the open door, checked the hallway. He gestured for her to follow once he'd confirmed it was clear. "I'm also coming with you."

Natasha stopped to raid one of the four unconscious guards for weapons. She found a rifle and checked it before she risked a peek at his face. "You sure? Could be dangerous."

Sherlock winked down at her. "That's my line."


	8. Chapter 8

John was waiting for them outside when they finally made their exit. "Hello children," he greeted, bringing the car to life. "How was school?"

Natasha folded her body into the backseat and yanked the door closed. "I made new friends."

"And put them all to sleep," Sherlock quipped. "Go."

John stomped on the pedal and tore away from the pristine white building that served as a front for Mycroft's 'off the books' compound. Lamp posts cast their yellow glow over the facade, and sparked off the golden plaque bearing its name.

Natasha turned to look through the rear window. "I'm surprised they're not following us."

"Give it time." Sherlock retrieved his phone from his trouser pocket and tapped his thumbs over the screen. "You didn't leave many of them conscious."

"Neither did you."

Sherlock's laugh was rumbly and low. John peeked at Natasha through the rearview mirror. "Should I be expecting bullets here soon? Because this isn't an armored car."

"You're fine for now," she promised. "I'll let you know if that changes."

John noticed she'd donned tac gear over her white t-shirt, all black kevlar. "What are you wearing?"

Natasha looked down at herself, but turned her attention back to the task as hand. "I needed to blend in if we wanted to get past the security checkpoints."

"Okay." John shifted in his seat, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "What happens now?"

"Now," Sherlock turned in his seat and tossed Natasha his phone. "You go back to Mary and pretend you didn't just assist me in breaking out a known fugitive in government custody."

"What about you?" John stopped when they reached a red light and turned his head to catch Sherlock's eye. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to Moscow."

"Moscow," John repeated. "How?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I was thinking I'd try one of those new airplane contraptions," he said sarcastically.

John shot him a _look_. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock, I realize an airplane is the likeliest possibility here," he retorted. "I meant, how are you going to get to Moscow without Mycroft catching on to what you're doing? He's not going to let her go so easy."

Sherlock turned his eyes ahead. "I took care of that already," he assured him. "He's unconscious, and will be for the next couple of hours."

"Jesus," John breathed.

Natasha leaned in between their seats with the phone in her hand. "Ivan's location?"

Sherlock glanced at the screen and nodded once. "I pieced together the trail he'd left behind," he confirmed. "This is the only location that meets all the criteria. He'll be there."

"Waiting," Natasha concluded soberly. "When can you leave?"

"I anticipated you'd want to leave as soon as possible and already booked us a flight," he assured her. "We leave tonight. Boarding time is in two hours."

"Cutting it a little close," John commented once they started moving again.

"Should give us just enough time to avoid my brother's men," Sherlock sad confidently. "He'll thank me afterwards."

John huffed in amusement. "Doubtful."

"I'll need to leave the chip with John, just in case," Natasha chimed in, returning Sherlock's pone.

"I can cut it out once I drop you two off," John offered.

"No, we're going to your place."

John did a double take. "What? Why?"

"You're going to report your car stolen," Sherlock explained. "Save yourself and Mary an unnecessary headache."

John clearly didn't like the idea, if the expression on his face and his general demeanor were anything to go by, but he still obliged without protest. Mary greeted them at the door and ushered them inside. She tied the sash of her robe around her waist.

"What's going on, then?" she asked once they'd all settled into the Watson's living room. "Am I putting the kettle on?"

Natasha took the couch while Sherlock paced the length of the room, bursting at the seams with pent-up energy. She smiled at Mary. "I'd take you up on the offer, if we weren't in such a hurry," she confessed.

John took Natasha's hand, cleaned the palm, and cut into the patch of synthetic skin they'd used to cover the chip he'd hidden underneath two days previous. "I'll take a cuppa," he requested.

Mary placed a hand on his shoulder. "In a minute," she said absently, eyeing Natasha with curious blue eyes. "You're Natasha Romanoff."

"I told you." Sherlock flashed Natasha a self-satisfied smile. "Anyone who pays attention knows who you are these days."

"I've read the blog and it's a pleasure," Natasha told Mary. "Raincheck on that tea?"

"Absolutely," she assured her. "John's been telling me about the case…" Her eyes darted from Natasha to Sherlock.

John exhaled a quiet laugh. "In a manner of speaking," he added vaguely.

Natasha was sure she'd missed something. She turned to Sherlock for an explanation, but he dismissed it with a flick of his hand. "Unimportant," he assured her. "And we have no time. Are you done?"

John fished the chip out of Natasha's hand with pincers. "All done," he announced, addressing Natasha next. "You don't have another of those stashed somewhere?"

Natasha lifted her hand to show him the synthetic patch had already sealed itself back up. "I still have three or fours days left before it stops working," she assured him, and stood. "Sherlock?"

He nodded once and ushered her ahead of himself to the door. "Remember to report the car stolen," he called over his shoulder.

"It was nice meeting you!" Mary called after them.

Outside, Natasha stripped out of the vest with a shiver and tossed it in the back seat of John's car. Sherlock walked round to the left side door and climbed behind the wheel, tugging his scarf free. Natasha settled into the passenger seat. Once she'd strapped herself in, she checked the time on the radio.

"Mary seems nice," she said casually.

"She is." Sherlock pulled into the street and darted his eyes her way. "Until you make her angry."

"A woman after my own heart." Natasha smiled, folding her arms over her chest in an effort to ward off the chill, and turned her head on the headrest to look at him. "Are you packed? I need to stop by my safe house to grab a few things."

"I packed a small bag in anticipation," he confirmed.

Natasha turned her eyes forward, but a moment later felt something light and warm land on her lap. She looked down. Sherlock's navy blue scarf pooled over her cotton-clad thighs, one end disappearing over the side. She unfolded her arms to pick it up, hesitantly looping it around her neck.

His scent was all over it, and she made a conscious effort not to pull the fabric up to her nose. She'd always been wolfish in her habits, but most people found it strange or unnerving. She knew Sherlock wouldn't be one of those people given the evidence so far, but she was fairly certain sniffing his clothes would be crossing a line.

"Thank you," she said instead.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, but still winked at her when she looked his way. He didn't make a show of the gesture or ask for anything in return, and Natasha felt herself relax in her seat. After a few seconds, she even allowed herself a smile.

At her safe house, she made quick work of packing a few essentials she knew would make it through security. She'd take care of the rest when they touched down in Moscow.

She still had contacts and safe houses within the city. All Russian and old, people she could trust because they owed her their lives. People who still knew what it meant to honor debts. 'You must always have a safe place to go', that was the first thing they taught you. She'd crafted her web based on that principle.

Once she'd packed, she showered, traded her prisoner rags for civilian clothes, and hastily changed the dressing on her stomach wound. It was coming along, but she had no time for a thorough inspection. They were already cutting it close.

She threw on her trench over black jeans and a black v-neck sweater, grabbed her bag, and looped Sherlock's scarf around her neck. He waited for her to finish, leaning against the car. They meant to abandon it here and take a cab to the airport.

Natasha locked the door behind her and Sherlock pushed himself upright. "I'm not getting my scarf back, am I?"

She flashed him a smile, just a little curve of her lips. "Only if you fight me for it."


	9. Chapter 9

Moscow was overcast and bleak by the time their plane touched down on the runway. Sherlock leaned over Natasha to look through the plane's oval-shaped window. The skies were gunmetal overhead and clouds, heavy with rain, streaked the muddy color.

Natasha followed his eyes to the landscape outside. "Weather's not usually so bad this time of year," she said absently. "We'll have to adjust."

Sherlock hummed his agreement and straightened in his seat. People around them were already unbuckling their seat-belts and fishing phones out of their bags. Announcements had already been made but they were still taxiing. He swept keen blue eyes over the crowd one more time.

"Anything?" Natasha took his hand and laced their fingers together, resting her head on his shoulder. Sherlock spared only a cursory glance for their joined hands.

There was purpose behind the gesture. Single travelers were statistically more likely to raise red flags with air marshals than those traveling in pairs. Red flags were something they simply couldn't afford. Having agreed that traveling together as a recently married couple was safer and more practical, they'd taken to their covers easily enough.

Mycroft would know as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the passenger roster for the flight, but there'd be very little he could do about it by then. Sherlock made sure of it. But he kept an eye on the air marshals and flight attendants throughout the journey, just in case. Pilots would've been in constant communication with a controller. He hadn't ruled out the possibility that his brother might send a message.

"Nothing," he answered finally, lifting Natasha's hand to his lips when the plane stopped moving. He pressed a kiss to the back. "I'll get our bags."

She let go of his hand to straighten in her seat. His fingers fidgeted without it, but it was an anxious gesture easily attributed to the confined space they found themselves in. He concentrated on retrieving their carry-ons from the overhead bin. When he finally managed to dislodge them from between the others, they both stood and waited for the door to open so they could step off the plane.

The process was tedious and time-consuming, or so it felt for both of them. Natasha was ready to knock a few people unconscious if it meant slicing a couple of minutes off their waiting time, and Sherlock wasn't faring any better. He stood close enough that she could feel his chest rising and falling. Hear his fingers tapping away at her leather bag.

She turned her head to look at him and his eyes darted from one person to the next, lips pressed firmly together. She knew he suffered from very mild claustrophobia from her previous dealings with Mycroft, but she never did manage to wrangle the whole story out of the elder Holmes.

She chastised herself for missing the signs. "Hey," she spoke quietly, reaching up to turn his face her way. "Focus on me, okay? We'll be out of here in no time."

Sherlock instinctively leaned into her touch. She turned fully, cupping his face in both her hands. He locked eyes with her and exhaled. "I'll be fine."

"I know." Natasha stroked one of her thumbs over his well-defined cheekbone to distract him. She made sure to keep eye contact. "But what kind of wife would I be if I didn't make the time in-between a little easier for my husband?"

Sherlock huffed. "I wouldn't know," he said.

"Mhm, and you'll never have to find out because I'm just that good," she retorted. "Aren't you a lucky man?"

"I don't believe in luck."

Natasha smiled a little and noticed the tension ease out of his shoulders. She waited until he'd matched her breathing to speak again. "How's it going back here?"

Sherlock peeked behind her. "Moving now," he answered, blue eyes straying back to her face. He reached up and circled one of her wrists with his hand. His thumb pressed against the pulse point. "Thank you."

Natasha winked and stroked his cheek one more time. "Any time," she said meaningfully.

Everything went by very quickly after they left the stifling interior of the airplane cabin. Having traveled only with carry-ons, there was no need to wait by the baggage carousel like everyone else. They made their way to the rental service counter and procured a practical car for themselves using their newly acquired identities.

Once they'd driven half an hour's distance from the airport, Sherlock parked the car and Natasha disabled the GPS tracking device it'd been equipped with. She worked quickly hoping to avoid the rain, but was still caught in a downpour seconds away from climbing back inside.

She yanked the door closed without complaint. "It's going to be a hell of a job doing recon in this weather."

Sherlock steered them back into traffic. "I checked the forecast. It doesn't appear to improve within the next few days. Ideas?"

Natasha's head fell against the headrest. "I might have something to help us along at one of my safe houses. Take the next exit."

"Yes m'am." Sherlock quipped, and cast a sideways glance her way. "How many?"

"Safe houses?" Natasha smiled and rolled her head on the headrest to look at him. "Enough to get by."

"And do you scatter your stolen goods amongst all of them?"

Natasha's smile grew. "You could say that. Can't keep it all in one place." She cocked a brow. "Why? Curious?"

"Curious about where you'll keep my scarf," he retorted. "I'd like it back eventually."

"A sense of humor," she teased.

"Surprised?"

"Not really." Natasha ran a hand over one end of the navy blue scarf looped around her neck. "I'll tell you where I'll be hiding it though." He glanced at her. "Right here, where I can keep an eye on it," she told him coyly. "I meant it when I said you'd have to fight me for it. You think I'd give it up so easily? I just got it."

Sherlock turned his eyes ahead, but his lips turned upward in a noticeable smirk. "I can be very persuasive," he informed her.

Natasha felt herself smiling in return. "Me too."

They arrived at Natasha's safe house twenty minutes later. She exchanged a few words in Russian with the building's owner before they made their way upstairs, closing the door once they stepped inside. The apartment was small and fully furnished, but otherwise empty. Save for a wooden cabinet propped against the far wall, there was nothing to give away the identity of its owner.

"Make yourself at home." Natasha strode over to the cabinet and punched in a ten digit combination on a keypad beside it. Sherlock set their bags down beside the couch.

Over the next few hours, they ironed out the details of their newest plan. Natasha was anxious, but she was well-versed in the art of keeping her feelings separate from her work. She wouldn't allow this become personal because that was precisely what Ivan wanted from her, and she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. She was better than that. Or at the very least she wanted to be.

Within the last twenty-four hours they hadn't done much sleeping or eating, but they were both too wired to do either while they waited. Sherlock didn't when he was working a case and Natasha was much the same. 'Hunger sharpens the mind' they used to say in the Red Room. Healthy or not, the habit was difficult to break. She resolved to do both afterwards and put it out of her mind.

Silence filled the rest of their waiting time. Sherlock retreated into his mind palace and Natasha into her pre-mission ritual. She liked to go over every possible scenario in her head and run through her options beforehand— _battle math_.

She liked this part of what she did. When everything else fell away and there was nothing but moves and countermoves before her. She liked playing the game and she liked playing to win.

Late in the evening, they packed their car and drove out to Ivan's location. He'd taken up residence in an abandoned mansion near the cemetery where Rose's little lifeless body had been buried years before.

Leaving their car far enough away not to raise suspicion, they hiked their way through the surrounding forest in tactical gear designed to withstand the weather.

"Not much in the way of security," Natasha commented three hours after they'd settled in to surveil the building. "Can't see any cameras from here, but they'd be well hidden. I haven't ruled out the possibility of motion sensors either, but—"

"Yes, I can't find any evidence of them anywhere." Sherlock lowered his high-powered binoculars and peered at the two-story structure through the falling rain. "No sign of him either."

Natasha looked again through the scope of her sniper rifle. "If he knows I'm coming for him, he won't take that chance."

"Then we are left with only one course of action," Sherlock concluded.

"It's not ideal," she replied.

"Or safe," he agreed.

"Suicide," she continued.

"Very likely."

Natasha lowered her rifle. "Shall we, then?"

"Absolutely."

Natasha thought the two-story monstrosity Ivan had chosen as the setting of their confrontation must've been beautiful once upon a time. A remnant of Imperial Russia, it was built in the neoclassical style with baroque elements scattered over its facade. An intricately designed triangular pediment crumbled over four stone pillars, all of them dangerously cracked and severely weathered.

She eyed them critically as they neared the building, using a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued night-vision goggles to cut through rain and darkness. Sherlock stopped her with a hand on her arm and pointed to the stairs leading up to the mansion's humidity-swollen double doors.

"Do you see them?" His voice had an anticipatory edge to it next to her ear.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the stairs at first glance. Leaves blanketed the tread and a thick layer of moss covered the risers. Very little of the stone underneath was even visible. That is, of course, unless you were paying attention.

Every ten steps, a trip wire ran from one end to the other, parallel to the ground. Leaves hid them from view, but they were hard to miss if you knew what you were looking for

"I see them," Natasha confirmed. "It would explain the lack of traditional security measures, if Ivan chose to booby trap the place."

"My thoughts exactly." Sherlock led her round to the back of the house with long purposeful strides. "You, _Natalia_ , are a marvel."

Natasha didn't bother hiding her amusement in the darkness. "Am I? I didn't realize."

Sherlock whirled around and took hold of her rain-soaked arms. "Secrets from the past, dead witnesses, puzzling deaths, impossible escapes, booby trapped mansions," he listed in quick succession. "It's Christmas! What an excellent choice of name for you."

Natasha felt the knot of anxiety in her stomach loosen at the sight of his smile. She tapped his arms, lightly and playfully, to signal he should let her go. "Let's see if we can survive the booby trapped mansion first," she said.

"Of course we will." Sherlock straightened and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Once more into the breach, dear friend?"

"Once more," Natasha quoted in reply, and together they disappeared inside the mansion.


	10. Chapter 10

Everything inside the mansion spoke of destruction and decay. Beautiful architecture pock-marked and crumbling. Decades worth of history hidden under layers of grime. Mildew crawling over peeling walls in spotted patterns.

Natasha sniffed the air as they stepped inside the kitchen. Wooden planks shuttered the windows closed and the air inside the room smelled musty. Old, and damp from the rain.

She was reminded of the catacombs underneath the Red Room. Primarily used for storage, but she remembered the Headmistress leading her down once. She'd been young and injured. A stab wound to her lower abdomen during one of her very first missions. She was meant to complete the job with her handler, but he'd called her back. Even then giving up hadn't been in Natasha's nature. She'd completed the mission without him, and when she returned, the Headmistress taught her how to stitch herself back up after injury.

Sherlock's fingers wrapping around her arm dispelled the memory. "Look," he whispered and pointed to a crooked frame hanging from the wall. She recognized it immediately.

"Mycroft would lose an arm," she said in her usual deadpan humor.

German forces during the Second World War developed the system. Crooked pictures rigged to explode when someone reached over to adjust the frame.

"Ivan always was fascinated with history," she added as they continued across the room. "And humanity's ability to manipulate its own predictable nature."

"Clever," he said quietly, but there was no admiration in his tone.

"I learned what I could from him," she agreed.

What was left of the ground floor was rigged with an assortment of historical traps of the Viet Cong and Second World War variety. Together, Sherlock and Natasha maneuvered through the deadly maze to reach the second floor of the house.

The stairs ended in a pair of corridors leading to opposite sides of the mansion. One of them was caved in and rain filtered through a jagged hole left in the roof. They took the other.

All the doors were closed except for the very last on their right, and a warm, flickering glow spilled from the open doorway. Sherlock and Natasha removed their night-vision goggles at the same time.

"Candlelight," Sherlock deduced, voice barely above a whisper. He stepped away to try one of the closed doors, brows furrowing when it didn't budge. "Curious."

Natasha drew one of her guns and walked ahead of him. "Theories?"

"Two," he said grimly.

"Stay behind me."

Natasha entered the candlelit room first, gun raised in front of her. She turned first one way and then the other, but there didn't appear to be anyone else inside. The room might've been one of the few in the house still dry. She noticed signs of water damage on the ceiling and running down the walls, but they didn't appear to be new.

"Seven months, at most," Sherlock whispered behind her almost as if he'd read her mind.

Natasha acknowledged him with a nod of her head, but her eyes were now taking in the rest of the room's trappings. A large canopy bed was pushed against one of of the walls, with two beside tables at each side. Candles covered the surface and blood-red wax spilled over the side to the floor.

At the foot of the bed there was a cradle. It looked brand new, but the design was clearly vintage. Dark cherry wood and cream crocheted blankets, bulging like there was something underneath.

Behind her, Natasha heard Sherlock draw his weapon. She whirled around and leveled her gun at the open doorway. "You know all these candles are a fire hazard," she said by way of greeting.

Ivan extended his arms to the side and opened his hands, palms up, as if to say 'what can you do'. "Small sacrifice, _tsarina_." He studied her with cloudy grey eyes that made her blood run cold. "How you've grown."

Natasha positioned herself between Sherlock and Ivan, shoulders squared. "Is that disappointment I'm hearing?"

"On the contrary." He stepped away from the doorway, pacing further into the room. His eyes flicked briefly, dangerously, to Sherlock, but he didn't otherwise comment on this presence. "You've grown more beautiful than I could've imagined."

Ivan was larger than she remembered. He'd worn layers, presumably to ward off the cold, but there was no hiding the broadness of his shoulders or the bulk of muscle underneath his sweater. He was taller, too. Last she'd seen him Natasha had been all of sixteen years old and Ivan had been forty-one. He looked aged now, well into his fifties, but his body was still the body of a soldier.

Natasha smiled wolfishly. "Lethal, too," she said. "But I'm not here to play games. You wanted me here and here I am. You know what's going to happen—"

"What should've happened the moment I stepped through that door," Ivan interjected. "But you're curious, yes?" He waited, but she didn't give him an inch. He pressed further. "Curious about how I survived. Come now, _tsarina._ You've seen this before. Solve the puzzle for me."

Natasha's mind raced. Because she _had_ seen this before. She'd had the answer to her question from the very beginning. How many people had tried to duplicate the Super Soldier Serum that gave Steve his abilities? Red Skull's abilities? Bucky's? How many had succeeded? How many variations existed? She could name several, Extremis and Project Centipede among them, and those were just the ones S.H.I.E.L.D. had known about before its collapse.

Sherlock must've deduced it the minute Ivan stepped inside the room. He was already ahead of her. "They must've injected him with the serum before you attempted to kill him, thus ensuring his survival," he spoke from behind her. "You didn't account for his enhanced physiology because you didn't know. It is my understanding these serums enhance the subject's intelligence as well, as was the case with Steve Rogers, but clearly…" He leveled icy blue eyes at Ivan. "There are exceptions."

"He speaks." Ivan's expression conveyed nothing but the pure unadulterated loathing of a man whose plans had been derailed. "Your reputation is well-earned, Mr. Holmes. Yes, I was injected with an experimental version of the super soldier serum," he confirmed. "It was not without its faults. As you can see," he made a long, sweeping gesture at himself, "I'm still aging." He came to a stop in front of them, just a couple of short steps away. He wasn't armed, but he didn't need to be. "I assure you, however, that my intelligence has never been in question. Tell me, Mr. Holmes, what's underneath the blanket?"

"A timer," he answered simply, reaching behind him into the cradle. He pinched the blanket between thumb and forefinger to lift the fabric in a dramatic reveal.

Natasha stole a peek at it over her shoulder. Bright red numbers flashed to five. Five minutes to take care of Ivan and get out of the house. She took note of Sherlock's position behind her and turned her eyes ahead. She'd already done her battle math, but new variables had been introduced into the equation. Ivan's enhanced speed, strength and durability.

She'd have to go for a headshot to be sure. Bucky and Steve were fast enough to dodge her bullets, which only meant she'd have to play it smart. She factored in his instincts, his state of mind, and his confidence in an unchangeable outcome. _Moves and countermoves._

Sherlock bought her time. "Meretricious," he continued lightly. "It wasn't a terribly difficult deduction, taking into account the booby trapped house, locked doors and appalling lack of security. You meant for this to be private and you meant for it to be permanent." He paused dramatically. "Your journey into the realm of the dead."

"Yes…" Ivan was at his breaking point and all the more determined to bring his plans to their ultimate conclusion. "But you were never meant to make the journey with us."

Natasha didn't give him a chance. Anticipating he'd dodge her bullet, she aimed for his chest and caught his shoulder. He was almost as agile as Steve, despite his larger frame. He lunged for her.

Sherlock stepped out of the way, announcing four minutes left on the clock. Natasha's back hit the cradle hard and the wood made a nasty splintering sound when it gave way. It tipped on its side a moment later, and they both hit the ground with a loud thump. Natasha's head knocked against one of its legs and the air rushed out of her lungs, but her grip never once loosened on her gun. Ivan's hand clamped around her neck.

"You were always meant to be mine, _tsarina_ ," he said in an eerily calm voice. "I picked you out of the rubble—out of the _flames._ How fitting that our end should be so similar." He raised his voice. "You should start running now," he told Sherlock. "While you still can."

Natasha gripped Ivan's wrist with her free hand and wedged her knee between his body and hers. He laughed, but it was all the space she needed. She positioned the tip of her gun just underneath his jaw without touching his skin, and met his eyes. "Hold still," she wheezed, throwing words he'd spoken to her when she'd been sixteen and drugged and vulnerable to his cruelty back in his face. "This will only hurt a little."

And then she pulled the trigger. Warm blood spattered her face, but all she registered was the loosening of his hand around her neck and air in her lungs. Sherlock shoved Ivan's body off her and yanked her to her feet.

"Two minutes," he called, dragging her out of the room by her hand. She matched his long strides with speed, and together they raced out into the hallway, down the stairs and back outside through the kitchen door.

Cold rain immediately peppered what little there was of exposed skin, washing the red from Natasha's features. They put as much distance as they could between them and the building before skidding down the nearest ravine, boots splashing into muddy water at the bottom. The tell-tale boom of the exploding mansion came only a moment later.

An initial concussive blast was immediately followed by a wave of air and debris, filling the near-perfect vacuum left in its wake. Natasha yanked Sherlock down into the dirty water, cradling his head close for protection. Clumps of dirt and loose rocks tumbled down the ravine, and as suddenly as it all began, everything was still.

Sherlock panted against Natasha's shoulder, lips brushing against the rough fabric of her uniform. She did her best to keep herself upright with her hands on his shoulders, but ultimately sagged against his chest in a coughing fit. He caught her with an arm around her waist.

"I thought you might've left without me," she rasped, still recovering from Ivan's chokehold. "I would've understood."

Sherlock tipped his head back to look at her, shoving wet curls away from his forehead. His features were barely discernible in the darkness, but she could still see him. She thought he might've smiled.

"Could've," he agreed. "But I'm not done with you yet, _Natalia._ "

Natasha exhaled a laugh and took his face in both her hands, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. She was close enough now that all she had to do was tilt her head and lean in.

Overhead, lightning flashed and lit up their features in the brightness of its glow. Sherlock's eyes were a glacial blue, softened only by the dark fringe of his lashes and the pink of his wet nose. She couldn't tear her eyes away.

"Say it again," she requested.

"Your name?" Sherlock didn't look nearly as confused as she expected him to be. She realized he must've noticed at some point, and the idea that he kept saying her name regardless made her smile. He met her eyes just as the light dimmed and thunder rolled. " _Natalia_ ," he repeated once it quieted.

Natasha leaned in and brushed her lips against his, water-slick and cold. She waited for him, asking without words. Sherlock cradled the back of her head in his free hand.

"Yes," he breathed against her lips.

"Yes?"

He pulled her closer. "Yes."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Some sexually suggestive narrative in this chapter, but nothing major and nothing explicit. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

* * *

"We have to go." Sherlock spoke the words against Natasha's lips only to be silenced with another of her kisses. She couldn't get enough of him—of the weight of his arm around her waist or the heat of his mouth on hers. He clutched her close enough to his chest that she could feel his heartbeat through the rain-soaked layers. "Now," he added when he could catch his breath.

"You have to let me go for me to move," she retorted, making no move to pry herself out of his arms.

He moaned low but forced the words past his lips. "You have to stop kissing me for me to let you go," he shot back.

"Fine." Natasha tore her lips away, water dripping down the tip of her nose. He smiled up at her, triumphantly, and smoothed her hair back from her face. She resisted the urge to kiss him again. "Let's go."

After they untangled themselves from their embrace, Sherlock and Natasha climbed out of the ravine and trekked back to their rental car. Natasha cranked the heat up on the drive back and tipped her head against the head rest. She stared at the darkened ceiling for all of two seconds before she closed her eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

"Relieved," she answered honestly, voice still raspy and quiet. "Cold." She opened her eyes and turned her head to study him, lips still tingling from their kiss. Sherlock kept one hand on the steering wheel while dragging the other over his dripping face. "Thank you for coming with me," she added.

"I like to see my cases through to the end," he said.

"And…" Natasha lowered her eyes, debating the merits of having this conversation now as opposed to later, when they were dry and comfortable. She decided to forge ahead. " _Is_ this the end? I'm not talking about the case anymore."

He didn't look at her, but his fingers flexed around the steering wheel. "It's not," he said cautiously, and risked a glance in her direction. He looked uncharacteristically uncertain. "It's not the end," he repeated. "Not if you don't want it to be."

"I don't," she said without hesitation.

Sherlock was quiet a long moment, like he was was mulling something over. Natasha busied herself with checking her gear. "It's not my area," he finally spoke up. "I don't—"

"Date," she finished for him. "I know, neither do I."

He cast a curious glance her way, and she smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "When I was with the KGB, I wasn't only allowed to…" She didn't want to say 'have sex' because it was more than that. She wasn't allowed to kiss, to hold hands, to hug, to date. She went with something else. "Be intimate with other people, unless it was for a mission," she explained. "It wasn't pleasant, especially after Ivan, but you know. Orders are orders." She paused. "After, when I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. … I just wasn't interested." Her brows furrowed uncertainly. "Until now," she concluded. "Until you."

"Hence the snogging," he said in quiet humor, but his voice was every bit as gentle as his touch earlier in the ravine.

Natasha smiled again. "Hence the snogging," she confirmed. "I can't do normal," she continued. "Whatever normal means, at any rate, but I don't want this to be the end."

He took a turn and peeked at her again. "What are you proposing?"

"An experiment," she offered after a moment of consideration. "If you're willing."

"My practical experience is limited," he said first. "But… yes, I'd be willing." He paused and added, meaningfully, "with you." He offered her his hand. "Studies have shown there is a correlation between the reduction of stress-related activity in the hypothalamus region of the brain and physical contact. I believe you know this already, you used a similar tactic in the airplane when we arrived."

Natasha's smile grew. "You're trying to comfort me," she deduced, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. His arm was long and the car was small enough that she could rest their joined hands on her thigh. "Thanks."

"Any time," he echoed.

By the time they arrived at Natasha's safe house, it was nearly impossible to see anything in the heavy downpour. Sherlock parked two blocks away for safety and together they ran the distance, hurrying inside once they made it to the building. Natasha immediately went for the heater.

Sherlock grabbed their bags on his way to the bedroom and threw a change of dry clothes for each of them of the bed. Natasha shimmied out of her wet ones while she searched for towels. "Here." She threw one his way when he was down to his pants. "I need to change the dressing on my stomach. Be right back."

Left in nothing but her underwear—black, simple, functional—she set her weapons down on top her dresser, kicked her clothes to a corner, and padded barefoot into the adjoining bathroom. Her emergency medical kit was underneath the sink. She retrieved it, flipped it open, and reluctantly gave up the warmth of her towel.

Sherlock stepped in behind her few seconds later, already dressed and relatively dry with the exception of his hair. He hung his towel next to hers and peeked over her shoulder.

"Let me," he offered, taking the dressing from her hands when she was done cleaning her wound. Natasha grabbed her towel with a grateful smile and turned her attention to her still-dripping hair.

He had to walk her back to the bed and sit in front of her to see what he was doing, but he worked quickly. Long fingers gentle and methodical on her skin. He peeked at her face when he finished, holding her hip with one hand while closing the medical kit with the other.

"All done," he announced.

Natasha smiled softly, pitching her towel with the rest of her clothes without moving from her spot. She liked his hands on her just a little too much and she wasn't about to give up the contact. " _Spasibo_ ," she said, carding her fingers through her hair in an effort to loosen the tangles.

Sherlock tossed the medical kit on the bedside table and straightened to meet her gaze, all blue eyes, soft lips and an open admiration that made the heat rise up in her cheeks. " _Pozhaluysta_ ," he quipped.

Natasha bit her lip to keep from smiling, but Sherlock caught the gesture and reached up with one of his hands to tug her bottom lip free. "Don't," he requested, gently running his thumb over the reddened spot. "Don't pretend with me."

He couldn't have known the effect his words would have on her, but the suddenly heated look in her eyes surely gave her away. She took his face in her hands without warning, closed the distance, and claimed his lips in a fervent kiss. His taste was as addictive as his scent she decided when his mouth opened beneath hers. She wanted more of it—more of _him_ , more of _this_ , whatever it was.

Steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder, Natasha straddled his lap and pressed herself flush against his body. She gave him a moment to reject the intimacy but there was no need. Sherlock leaned into the kiss, gripping her powerful thighs in his elegant hands and dragging her close enough that she arched against his chest.

Natasha felt dizzy. Drunk on the feel, the taste, the very nearness of this complicated man whose overwhelming passion, loyalty and _humanity_ matched his unfathomable intelligence. He drew his hands open-palmed over her curves, leaving scalding hot trails over thighs, hips and back, ceasing his explorations only when he reached the clasp of her bra. He hooked a finger underneath the fabric, wordlessly asking for permission.

She broke away to speak. "We can stop whenever you want," she panted against his lips. "Any time, just say the word."

"I want you," he retorted huskily, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. "I want all of you, _Natalia_ ," he reiterated. "If you don't mind guiding me where guidance is needed."

"I don't," she answered without breaking eye contact. "You can have me, all of me, however you want me..." She pulled her tangled hair over one shoulder and felt the clasp of her bra give way beneath his nimble fingers. She spoke her next words against his lips. "I'm yours."

Sherlock slid the thin black straps down her arms, leaving goosebumps where he touched her skin. When it was free, he tossed the garment over his shoulder and pulled back to sweep his eyes over the newly revealed skin. He exhaled—slowly, shakily—and met her eyes one more time, green and vulnerable and still absolutely predatory. "You're beautiful," he breathed.

"Yours," she repeated.

She made quick work of his shirt, urgently pushing him down on the mattress with a hand on his chest. His heartbeat was fast underneath her fingers and his pale skin warm and flushed. She trailed a line of reverent kisses from his chest to his neck, and over the perfect outline of his jaw, finally arriving at his parted lips.

Sherlock held her in place with a hand behind her neck. "You lead," he spoke when they stopped for breath, dragging his fingertips over the shell of her ear, down her neck and past her collarbone. "I'll follow."

Everything around them—rain pattering against the window, thunder rolling overhead, heater humming softly—faded to the background until there was nothing but the sound of their breathing and their heart pounding in their ears.

Natasha wasn't surprised to learn that Sherlock was a quick learner and a true scientist. His practical experience might've been limited, but he more than made up for it with his shrewd observational skills and willingness to experiment. She memorized the feel of his whispered deductions against her ear, and the rise and fall of his chest against hers. He kept up with her even when she lapsed into Russian, whispered and ragged against his lips. And for every call, every question, every reassurance, she savored her name on his tongue. _Natalia._

Once they stilled underneath the covers, wrinkled and messy from their exertions, Sherlock turned on his side pulled her close to his heaving chest. He pressed a kiss to an old scar at the nape of her neck and exhaled. "That was…"

"A good idea?" Natasha smiled, cheeks flushed a dark pink.

His laugh was a low rumble in his chest. "I suppose that's one way to describe it," he spoke huskily. "Was my performance satisfactory?"

"Very." Natasha turned in his arms so they were face to face, and found herself trapped against his chest. She didn't mind at all. "I thought maybe you might've deduced that, from the Russian…"

"Moaning…"

"Shivering," she continued playfully, but her gaze turned soft. "Stay with me tonight?"

He was quiet the second it took him to deduce her meaning. "Sleep with you," he said out loud. "Are you sure?"

"If you don't mind," she confirmed.

Sherlock kissed her forehead, rolled to his back and pulled her with him, tucking her protectively against his side. Natasha twined one of her legs with his and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

He smoothed his hand over the curve of her hip. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised against her ear.

Natasha closed her eyes and relaxed, breathing him in. "I love the way you smell," she said softly.

"I know," he confessed.

She huffed in amusement. "Was I that obvious?"

"No, not at all. You're never obvious about anything, it's fascinating," he said first. "No," he repeated, "but your eyes dilated every time you were presented with the stimulus."

"Clever man," she said softly.

"I'm afraid I can't help it," he answered unabashedly.

Natasha circled a possessive arm around his waist, kissing his neck when his arms tightened around her body. She was close to drifting off, but she found the strength to speak. "I wouldn't want you to."


	12. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** Spoilers for _Captain America: Civil War_ within! And also, with this chapter, we bring the story to its ultimate conclusion. I'm beyond grateful to my beautiful land mermaid of a beta, Gracie Holmes, for reading through all 20K+ words of this for me. Twice. Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing too. I really hope I've done this story justice.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 _They're coming for you._

Natasha left the medical facility where Tony was overseeing Rhodey's recovery with a destination already in mind. She was alone now, but that wasn't new or unexpected. She'd liked having a family and she'd tried to keep it together to the best of her ability, but she'd learned her lesson very young. _Nothing lasts forever_.

Her Stingray was waiting for her when she reached the parking lot. She slid behind the wheel and punched it to the airport, always keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to make sure she wasn't followed. Looking over her shoulder was second nature. She doubted there'd ever come a time when it wasn't. Paranoid, maybe, but it kept her alive.

"They're coming for you," he'd said to her, like running wasn't already coded into her DNA, along with being a so-called 'double agent'.

Natasha knew it was the pain talking, but it was still a low blow from Tony. She brushed it aside and grabbed her phone from the center console to check her messages. Steve hadn't called her back, but she'd left him a voicemail. _'Going off the grid. You know where to find me.'_

She didn't expect his trust. The fact that she was now a fugitive— _again_ , but what else was new—didn't change anything between them, she knew. But they were still friends, weren't they? She wasn't so sure anymore.

At the airport she used one of her newest aliases to get through security, and boarded a seven hour flight to London. Eight and a half hours later found her pulling up in front of _Speedy's_ in London's Baker Street. She paid the cabbie, grabbed her bag, and climbed out of the back seat, kicking the door closed with the heel of her boot.

Natasha visited Sherlock frequently following their very first encounter. Work always kept them busy, but their experimental arrangement allowed them freedom to be who they were with the added benefit of each other's company. She always looked forward to their time together. Whether it was days or weeks, being in Sherlock's company was gratifying in many ways.

She let herself in through the front door and climbed up the stairs to 221B, cutting through the hallway to his bedroom. He wasn't in yet, but she made herself at home all the same.

She'd only spoken to him once after the bombing in Vienna, when he'd called to make sure she was all right. After the fight in Leipzig, she'd only managed a text before T'Challa gave her up to Ross and she was forced to disappear. She'd only delayed her trip to London because she couldn't find it in herself to leave without checking in on Rhodey's progress or Tony's state of mind.

Natasha sent him another text now to let him know where she was, and put the kettle on while she waited. By the time she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs, she'd changed into black leggings and one of his button-down shirts, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She set her cup of black tea down on the dining table and closed her book, breaking out in a hesitant smile as he entered the kitchen.

"Hey you," she greeted.

Sherlock strode over and caught her lips in a lingering kiss. "I've missed you," he informed her, straightening to remove his coat and scarf. He stole a glance at the cover of her battered book. "War and Peace again?"

"Ive been in a philosophical mood lately." Natasha grabbed her cup and carried it to the sink.

Sherlock followed her over once he'd discarded his suit coat, and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He pressed a kiss to her temple and spoke quietly against her hair. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing new." Natasha leaned against his chest. "Broke the law, and now I'm a wanted criminal."

"Sounds familiar." He waited patiently for her to continue, but she wasn't sure she could. Everything was still just a little too fresh, and she needed more time to process it fully.

"Are you still looking for a flatmate?" she asked after a moment of silence.

"That depends," he replied with a bit of a smile in his voice, "are you offering?"

"Maybe." Natasha turned her head and he loosened his hold on her to meet her eyes. "I took every precaution. It'd be relatively safe, considering, but there's still a possibility they'll eventually track me down."

"I accept the risk," he answered simply. "Anything else?"

"I don't want to bring danger to your doorstep," she insisted.

"Why not? I like danger."

Natasha almost smiled. "I'm serious."

"As am I." Sherlock turned her around in his arms and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes, making it clear he was every bit as serious as he claimed to be. "It's been over a year," he continued. "And we're both still alive, aren't we? I think we've proven ourselves by now. We can, and have, handled this. If you need a place, you're welcome to stay here." Natasha searched his features for doubt, but there wasn't any find. His lips lifted at the corner. "I'm also notoriously difficult to kill," he added in humor.

Natasha didn't bother suppressing her smile. "You have a point," she conceded.

"Of course I do." Sherlock released her chin only to pull her back into his arms. "How do you feel about solving crimes?"

"I could do with some variety." Natasha raised herself up on tiptoe and circled her arms around his neck. He swayed her from side to side in a stationary dance. "How do you feel about guns underneath the pillow?" she prompted in turn.

"Used to it by now," he assured her. "You always sleep with one when you're over. Violin in the middle of the night?"

"Used to it by now," she echoed. "And you already know it's my favorite, I can live with it on a regular basis." She hesitated, wanting to say the words she'd been thinking for months now but never quite managed to say out loud. She gathered her courage to say them now. "There's something else you should know."

"I'm all ears." He pressed her against the edge of the sink behind her, ducking his head to kiss her neck.

Natasha closed her eyes and tilted her head to give him better access. "I love you," she said quietly but clearly. Sherlock froze with his lips on her skin. "I don't expect anything," she was quick to add, a little worried she'd just made another mistake. "I just thought you should know, if we're going to be living together." When he still didn't say anything, she opened her eyes and pulled back to take his face in her hands. "Please say something."

Sherlock didn't look panicked or scared, he looked like he was debating something in his head. She didn't know whether that was good or bad, but she waited quietly (and yes, a little anxiously) for him to render his verdict.

"I was going to tell you," he finally confessed. "I had a plan. John said that I needed—"

"Tell me now," Natasha cut him off with a growing smile.

Sherlock took her hands from his face and returned her arms to their rightful place around his neck. Circling her waist with his own, he held her gaze and spoke in Russian. " _I love you, Natalia Alianovna Romanova_."

Natasha closed the distance to claim his lips and once again found herself pinned between the kitchen sink and Sherlock's lean frame. She might've lost many things in the last few weeks—her friends, her family, her team—but here in Sherlock's arms she always found her _place_. She wasn't alone anymore.

"I love you too," she murmured, "Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
